


The Turncoat Affair

by Graculus



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Expect the unexpected and you'll never be disappointed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turncoat Affair

It all began so simply, their first meeting so obvious that it took Napoleon Solo a while to realize it had been carefully planned. If he'd considered the matter at all he would have known that was the case, but instead he'd been too busy dusting himself off to figure it out.

He hadn't seen the face of the man who'd sent him sprawling across the dusty boardwalk to land on his back. His only impression was one of bright blue eyes and a whirlwind of buckskin-clad movement. By the time Solo had righted himself and looked round, the person he'd collided with was gone and he was alone.

Solo took a moment to straighten his vest, brushed a little more dust from the sleeve of his jacket and continued on his way towards the saloon without looking round again.

The sound of running footsteps alerted him to more people approaching as he neared the saloon doors - Solo stepped aside as two heavy-set individuals, dressed in work clothes that had seen better days, thundered past him. Once they were gone he didn't spare them a further thought, drawn as he was like a moth to a flame towards the bright lights of the saloon. He'd pretty much outstayed his welcome in this particular town - a gambler knew these things; a successful gambler learned to judge the moment to leave town before the locals started to get agitated.

Solo glanced at his own reflection in the fly-specked mirror behind the bar, an automatic response as practised as the glance to check the available exits. A smudge of dirt was there, high on one cheekbone, easily removed by the casual movement of a hand - other than that he was the very picture of what a gambler should be. His clothes were good quality, but not flashy, telling the world of his success without flaunting the fact. After all, who would want to play cards with someone who wasn't worth beating?

He recognized some of the players waiting for him at the table he'd made his own, people he'd parted from their money the previous night now desperate for a re-match - others he didn't know but they had the same look, that expression borderline between hope and desperation he'd seen on a thousand different faces in a hundred different towns.

This was getting old and he was concerned that he was on the verge of losing his edge. Perhaps it was time to give up gambling for a while and turn to something else? Solo had a dozen different tried and trusted money-making schemes to turn to, covering his tracks with professional ease as he changed his persona like he changed his clothes.

Solo removed his jacket and carefully arranged it across the back of the chair before he took his seat, feeling the unfamiliar rustle of paper in his inside pocket as he did so.

Long years of practising his poker face enabled Solo to hide his surprise - he'd not put whatever was now in his pocket there, so that meant there was only one possibility. Whoever had run into him on the boardwalk had done so, with a skill at legerdemain he both envied and admired. There was no chance of checking what it was he had, for now at least, that would only arouse suspicion. And chances were that, if someone had taken such trouble to get a document into his possession, it was worth something and the person who put it there would be equally interested in retrieving it at his leisure.

Solo smiled to himself. It was a long time since he'd had an opponent worthy of his efforts.

He removed his cufflinks, rolling up the sleeves of his impeccably laundered shirt to show he had nothing hidden there. Nodding to the other players, Solo settled down to an evening of cards, pushing the thought of the mysterious document to the back of his mind as he did so.

Later, when he'd relieved many of his fellow players of their money, and the most prudent had left the game already, Solo called it a night. It would probably be a good idea to leave town the next day, he decided, as he headed up to his hotel room - the looks on the faces of some of his opponents did not bode well.

Once inside the room, Solo checked it carefully for any sign of an intruder and found nothing. His case lay beneath the bed, the single hair he'd placed across the lock still in place, his various moveable items still in their exact places on the dresser. He closed the drapes carefully before turning up the light, taking care to keep it between him and the window.

Only then did he remove the piece of paper from his jacket pocket, angling it to catch the light as he unfolded it. As he'd suspected from the texture of it the moment his fingers touched, it was a map - a crudely drawn one at that, all spidery writing and scratched lines.

But a map to what? Solo turned the paper over, searching for anything he could understand. The writing was legible, if apparently written in great haste, but it was in no alphabet he recognised. Some of the letters were familiar, others he had never seen before. Some kind of code, perhaps?

That sense of anticipation he'd missed began to grow. If someone had taken some trouble to conceal the meaning of these markings, then to pass it onto him, there had to be some great secret involved. Perhaps this was the puzzle he'd been looking for, the enterprise that would allow him to change his life forever?

\--------------------

He'd never been a heavy sleeper but the possibilities held by this small piece of paper had kept Solo awake for a good portion of the night. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that the person who'd planted it on him hadn't chosen so far to try and retrieve it.

As he dressed, Solo cast his mind back to the brief encounter on the dusty boardwalk. Try as he might, he couldn't add to his earlier impressions of buckskin and blue eyes - those had been the only things he remembered. He couldn't even swear to the height or sex of the person who'd run into him, who'd taken that opportunity to plant this map on his person as they did so.

As he left the hotel, heading for the small restaurant that was all this town had to offer in terms of edible fare, he couldn't help feeling he was being watched. It was an itching between his shoulder blades, an invisible presence Solo couldn't locate. A feeling that took him back to the war. For all its horror, at least then he'd truly felt alive, and that was something he missed now time and distance had dulled the horrors he'd witnessed and experienced.

He never saw the blow that rendered him unconscious, or felt it as he was manhandled roughly onto the back of a horse.

\--------------------

The world spun, his head ached, the warm trickle of blood an immediately recognizable sensation. As he blinked awake, it took a moment for Solo to focus on the faces above him - familiar faces, the bad losers from the night before. One of them had his hand raised, for another blow designed to wake him further, surely the source of some of his aches.

"He's awake," the other said. "Don't waste your strength on him."

His horse stood nearby, looking almost apologetically down its long nose at where he lay half-slumped against a boulder. Solo frowned at the small bundle of belongings on its back, realising that his captors had covered their traces - this didn't bode well for his chances of getting out of here alive and relatively unharmed.

"Where's the money?" the larger of his captors asked, pulling him up by a firm grasp of his upper arms. Solo's hands were tied in front of him, but they were white and almost insensate with lack of blood. If they weren't untied soon, he wouldn't have to worry about turning another card for a living, just about how the hell he was going to survive at all. "Where is it?" Each word was punctuated by a shake, making his teeth rattle in his head and the world spin again.

"Go to hell," Solo ground out, when he could focus once more. He was under no misapprehension that the money - his winnings from the previous night and before - was probably all that was keeping him alive.

A couple of blows to the stomach left Solo lying in the dust on his side, gasping for breath. There wasn't any way out of this situation, as far as he could see, and a cold feeling of dread began to accompany the ache.

"What's this?"

It seemed that they'd rummaged through his pockets before he'd regained consciousness - one of his captors was now holding the small piece of paper Solo had puzzled over. By the way he was turning it over in his hands, he had as little idea of what it signified as Solo himself did, assuming of course that he wasn't utterly illiterate in the first place.

"That's mine," a quiet voice said. The all-too familiar sound of a Winchester repeating rifle being cocked accompanied the words as the speaker emerged from behind a nearby tree. "And so is he."

Solo turned to the voice, as did his captors, their hands dropping to the revolvers they wore. The newcomer was compactly built, clad in familiar-looking buckskin. This time around he wasn't wearing a hat, as he had been before - there was no way Solo would have forgotten someone with hair that light. His voice was low, but carried across the small clearing regardless, the trace of an unfamiliar accent laced among the words. Did that explain the markings on the map? Not code, but some language with which Solo was unfamiliar?

He would have bristled at the words and their proprietorial tone, if it hadn't been for the simple fact that there was now a greater chance for him to leave here with his skin intact. He hoped.

"Is that so?" asked the one with the weakest survival instincts of the two. Solo watched him eye the newcomer, watched him make the mistake of giving more weight to the pickpocket's smaller stature than to the casual competence with which he handled the rifle. That was the kind of mistake you usually didn't live to regret.

The newcomer had stood his ground, well within range for someone who knew what he was doing with that rifle. He didn't seem bothered that he was facing two men with revolvers drawn, his cool gaze raking each of them in turn. Solo pulled himself up to a sitting position once more, wishing he didn't have such a front row seat. Despite the odds, he didn't have much difficulty believing there was only one way this could end - his captors were obviously as stupid as they looked, not recognising the look of someone who both could and _would_ kill them if he had to.

Even as he moved, there was a blaze of gunfire. When it ended, as suddenly as it began, both his captors lay dead, blood slowly pooling around them in the dirt. The newcomer uncocked the rifle, then stood gazing down at the two bodies in silence.

"I'm hoping you're planning to untie me," Solo said, as much for something to say. That penetrating gaze turned to him then, and he found himself swallowing at its intensity. "My name's Solo," he continued. It took all he had not to flinch as the other man approached, pulling a large knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh.

"Curry. Isaac Curry," he said, as he cut Solo's hands free.

Somehow Solo didn't believe that, but he'd learned early on to accept whatever someone told you and go with it. People often came out west to escape their past; taking a new name was a part of that.

"Thanks," he said, flexing his hands experimentally. Blood rushed into his fingers, making them tingle unpleasantly. "And what do you want with me, Isaac Curry?"

"The map." Curry held out his hand - after a moment, Solo relinquished the piece of paper which had blown his way when one of his captors dropped it in favour of his revolver. Curry seemed prepared to wait forever to get his hands on it once more. "I was sent to find you. With this."

Curry crossed to another boulder, a few feet away, and sat facing Solo - that was a relief, since he didn't feel like moving any time soon.

"Sent?" Solo echoed.

Curry nodded, resting his rifle across his knees. "Does the name Alexander Waverly mean anything to you?"

"Colonel Waverly? He was my commanding officer during the war."

"And Mason Granger?"

Solo knew he'd reacted to that name, he didn't need to see the mirror of that reaction on Curry's face to know his own had darkened.

"Granger is dead." And burning in hell, if there's any justice, he would have added.

"You saw him die?" Curry pressed, as his agile fingers toyed with the map Solo had given him. He didn't seem to realise he was doing it, folding and unfolding the paper as he spoke. "Buried his body?"

"His unit was cut off. Only two men survived and both of them said he'd been cut down by artillery fire." A chill settled in his stomach at the thought of Mason Granger alive. Alive all this time and he hadn't known of it. "He has to be dead."

"A man answering Granger's description was seen about eighty miles from here. This map gives directions to where he was seen. If you're interested." Curry's face gave nothing away, his bright blue eyes the only indication of life. "Colonel Waverly knew you'd be able to identify him."

That was certainly the case. If anyone could identify Mason Granger, dead or alive, Solo was the man for the job. Even if the thought of even facing the other man made him feel physically sick.

"Where does Waverly fit into this?"

"He wants Granger too. Preferably alive and on trial, but if that's not possible..." Curry shrugged. "Sometimes it's not possible."

\-----------------

It hadn't taken very long for Solo to make up his mind. He owed Curry his life now but he owed Granger even more than that - a short drop at the end of a rope would be a kinder end than he deserved. Even though he wasn't completely sure what Colonel Waverly's part in all this was, that was a minor point.

Granger had been the worst kind of villain, one who hid his villainy behind a smiling face. They'd been friends, and more than friends, before Solo had discovered the worst about him. That he was someone who'd sell the secrets of the cause he fought for without a second thought, betraying everything both of them had fought for. In the end, it probably would have made no difference - surely things were too far gone for the South by then - it was the principle of the thing. How long had he been a traitor?

The betrayal had been all the more potent for the intensity of what had lain between them, another lie where Mason Granger was concerned. He hadn't made the same mistake since. That had been the last time Solo let anyone that close.

Hell, he'd pull the lever on the man himself, if Waverly would let him.

So, currently he was riding alongside Curry, following the directions on the map he'd been carrying.

Curry was a conundrum. He didn't speak; it seemed he gave his entire concentration to what was going on around them. His eyes were alert, shaded under the most disreputable hat Solo had seen in a long time, for the slightest sign they might be watched or followed.

There was a tension in the smaller man, an alertness Solo recognized from seeing it in so many soldiers, though the comforts of peacetime had erased that same tension in himself. It wasn't something he missed. That constant state of vigilance was wearing, particularly if you had nobody to watch your back, as it seemed was the case with Curry. He could never really relax, never really let down his guard.

"Are you expecting a welcoming committee?" he asked, just for something to say.

Curry stiffened at the words, as if he'd forgotten Solo was there. "No," he said. "But it never pays to be complacent."

"You never said why Waverly sent you," Solo continued, after a further silence had hung between them for a few moments. "What's your connection with Granger?"

"It was Waverly's decision," Curry replied. Solo considered that for a moment. Waverly hadn't been the most forthcoming commanding officer when Solo had known him either - he tended to make decisions and expect his subordinates to go along with them, no matter how outlandish. "He seems to think very highly of you," Curry continued, though the words sounded as though they pained him. "For some reason."

"Well, I wasn't always a gambler," Solo said, wondering why it mattered what Curry thought of him. Curry looked sceptical. "But a man has to make a living." Curry was eyeing him now with a mixture of interest and scepticism that made Solo shudder slightly. He knew what the other man was thinking, he'd thought it of himself occasionally as well - what wouldn't he do to make a buck?

Principles were all well and good when there was food on the table, that was something Solo had learned since the war. But there had always been lines he wouldn't cross, no matter what his appearance might advertise about himself. He said nothing; it was a pointless exercise to correct people's assumptions, he'd learned that the hard way. If Curry wanted to think he was cut from the same cloth as Mason Granger, if he was a big enough fool to judge people by their appearances that way, then who was Napoleon Solo to disabuse him of the notion?

"We should make camp soon," Curry said, changing the subject suddenly. It seemed he was all business once more, now his curiosity had been satisfied a little. He looked at the map once more. "There's a waterhole not far away, we'll stop there."

Solo nodded. It wasn't worth the effort to argue with Curry, and the set of the other man's jaw told him that he wasn't someone easily persuaded out of his way. Not that Solo didn't enjoy a challenge now and then, but he preferred to choose his battles.

\------------------

He couldn't sleep. Solo found himself studying the huddled shape that was Isaac Curry rolled in a blanket, lying a few feet away from him across the fire. The very top of his head was exposed, the blond hair catching the dying light of the sparse fire Curry had built to cook their even sparser supper on, making Solo wonder again where Curry was really from.

His accent was a sure sign he wasn't a local, his coloring reminding Solo of some of the Swedish immigrant farmers he'd met during the war. Curry certainly wasn't a Swedish name, though, and he was certain that wasn't anything like the truth.

He seemed trustworthy, though, even if it had been a long time since Napoleon Solo had trusted anyone but himself. Mason Granger had been at the root of that decision, even if at the time he'd been convinced that Granger himself was dead. They'd been closer than two men had a right to be - he'd thought the relationship they had as important to Granger as himself but obviously that hadn't been the case.

He had to admit he'd missed that closeness since he'd learned the truth about Granger, but whores were easy to come by in any reasonable sized town and that way he could at least slake his desires for a little while. He'd found himself admiring Curry's ass as he'd bent to arrange his blankets, so maybe a trip to a nearby whorehouse wouldn't go amiss.

But first he had a score to settle with Granger, and if it wasn't an encounter he was looking forward to, it was one for which he was well-prepared. And if Curry could help him ensure that Granger got what he deserved, that was even better.

\---------------

"I'm looking for Mason Granger," Solo said to the man who greeted him, rifle pointed in his direction.

They'd followed the map, then he'd been able to persuade Curry to allow him to go on ahead alone. If anyone would recognize Granger, he'd be the one.

The house was large, sprawling along the side of a small creek, the room he was led into almost palatial. A fire blazed in the hearth, drawing Solo to it even as he heard the man who'd accompanied him leave.

"Napoleon." That voice was unmistakeable. He didn't even bother to turn round. "Old friends meeting again, it always gives me a warm feeling."

"Mason."

He could feel Granger's presence, solid and warm behind him.

"That's no greeting for an old friend."

"You left me behind." He had to tamp down on the anger he was feeling, he couldn't afford to let it surface. "You let me think you were dead."

One long-fingered hand was resting on his shoulder now, and it was all Solo could do not to move from beneath the grip. Knowing now what he did of Granger's true motivations, the memories of what they had once done together nauseated him, there was no pleasure in them.

"I had no choice," Granger said, as he stroked the side of Solo's neck. He knew all of Solo's weaknesses, the places that helped bring him to arousal, and it seemed he was prepared to use that knowledge. "Waverly would have seen me hanging from the nearest tree."

Despite himself, Solo felt the thrum of arousal, felt his body begin to respond to the stimulation of Granger's talented hand. A noise at the door made them both turn, Granger's hand dropping away as they stood side by side.

Two of Granger's men entered, dragging someone between them. The clothing alone would have been enough to tell him it was Curry, his bright hair streaked with blood. When they stopped, just inside the door, Solo found himself wincing at the effort it obviously took for him to raise his head and glare at Granger. He had to admit, Curry had some backbone.

"We found him skulking around outside, sir."

"Friend of yours, Napoleon?" Granger asked, wisely not stepping any closer to Curry. The glare alone should have been enough to warn him that Curry meant business and Granger was nothing like as complacent as Solo's former captors had been.

"I suppose I should thank him for bringing us together once more," Solo said.

Let Granger make of that what he would. The other man half-turned to smile at him, a familiar expression that now left Solo cold. He saw the calculation there now, where once he had seen fondness. He wouldn't be taken in again. Granger's hand came to rest upon Solo's shoulder once more, the semblance of intimacy between them clearly declared for everyone to see.

Curry's glare transferred from Granger to him, that penetrating gaze sparkling with anger and not a little frustration at being caught. Solo didn't look away, wondering just how good a judge of character Curry was and whether he, of all people, would be able to tell just what was really going on.

Was it his imagination or did the fierceness of that expression falter a little when their eyes met? Curry gave no sign of anything changing, the constancy of his face something a poker player would envy. Even as Granger's hand rested on his shoulder, Solo found himself more concerned with what Curry thought of him than what Granger had planned.

"Take him outside and kill him," Granger said, turning back to Solo as he did so. "My friend and I have a lot of catching up to do."

"If anyone's going to die, Mason," Solo said, pulling his revolver from its holster, "it's going to be you." He stuck the gun into Granger's side. "Tell them to let him go." Granger had stiffened as he felt the gun against his ribs, but said nothing. "Tell them!"

"Let him go," Granger said, after Solo had pressed the gun harder into his side. "Really, Napoleon," he continued. "There's no way this can end well."

The other men released Curry, who took a couple of hasty steps out of their reach, crossing towards where Solo and Granger stood.

"You won't hurt me, Napoleon," Granger said. "Not after everything we shared."

"He may not," Curry said, pulling his knife from its sheath and placing the edge against Granger's throat. "But I will." Solo could see the beads of blood that appeared where the apparently razor-sharp edge rested against the skin. "Tell your men to drop their guns."

Solo pulled his gun from where it had been pressed into Granger's side and turned it on the two men.

"Do as he says."

They looked at one another, then as one turned and left the room.

"You just can't get good hired help nowadays," Solo said, holstering his pistol.

He turned once more to where Curry still had Granger pressed back against the mantel at knifepoint, looking as though it made little difference to him whether the other man lived or died. Granger looked a little scared, as well he might.

"I can't believe you would do this to me, Napoleon," Granger said. "Tell your friend to put his knife away, perhaps we can reach some kind of agreement."

Solo pondered that for a moment. Though he wasn't sure what Granger could possibly say that would make a difference, he wanted to hear him out. If for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity, or to remind himself just why it was they had been so close.

"Let's hear what he has to say," Solo said. He locked eyes with Curry for a moment, before the other man nodded and backed off a little. Granger's hand went to his throat, fingers gingerly touching the bloody line Curry's knife had left.

"There's nothing he could say," Curry began, then Granger lunged at him, one hand going for the knife, the other wrapping around Curry's waist as they hit the ground and rolled together.

Solo didn't dare intervene, didn't dare try and shoot as the two wrestled together on the floor in front of him. Then, as swiftly as the fight had begun it was over, the bodies both slumping lifelessly on the floor. A pool of blood began to trickle from where they lay.

"Well, that went better than I expected," Curry said, disentangling himself from Granger's grasp.

\---------------

By the time they'd finished burying Granger's body, it was almost nightfall. Putting him in the earth hadn't been quite as satisfying as seeing him dangle at the end of a rope would have been, but Solo found it gave him what he needed. An end to part of his life he wished had never begun.

"He's really dead this time," Solo said. "What happens now?"

"I'm sure Waverly will want to see you," Curry replied. "Unless you have somewhere better to be."

And that was it, wasn't it? He had nowhere to go, nobody waiting for him. Solo felt the ground move beneath him, then Curry was there, steadying him as the world continued to move.

"Let's find some food," he said. "Then we need to get some sleep."

Solo nodded, the strange numbness that had suddenly overtaken him all-encompassing. He allowed himself to be led back into the house, letting Curry take him into the kitchen and plant him in a chair by the stove. He watched the other man scavenge for food, all the while feeling as if he were watching from a great distance.

"I'm not hungry," he said, even as his stomach betrayed him by growling. Curry snorted, not even bothering to reply to that obvious lie.

"You're still alive," Curry said a few minutes later, as he placed two plates of food on the nearby table. "Waverly will have my hide if I don't make sure you stay that way."

Solo came over to the table and stood for a moment, looking down at the food. It was basic, to say the least, a couple of slices of bread and some cheese that had seen better days. On his plate, he noticed, there was also a fried egg, edges brown and crisped from the haste with which Curry had cooked it.

"Sit down." Curry's voice was terse. "If I have to feed you, I will." He didn't need to look at the other man to know the statement for the threat it was.

After a couple of mouthfuls, Solo found his appetite renewed and fell upon the food with a will. He didn't look up as Curry got up from the table, returning momentarily with a battered coffeepot and two equally battered tin mugs. The brew it contained was strong enough to strip hair from hide, Solo was sure of it, but it helped to clear his head a little and for that he was grateful.

Once they'd finished eating, the two of them left the kitchen together, leaving the detritus of their meal behind. By unspoken agreement, they headed upstairs, Solo concentrating on making his way up the steps without making a fool of himself.

"There's only one bed," he said, when he opened the door to what was apparently Granger's room.

"You need more than one?" Curry asked. "I'll be next door if you need anything."

He didn't quite close the connecting door when he left, a fact for which Solo was grateful. He was so tired he had visions of ending up face-first on the floor if he had to find the chamber pot and was glad that Curry would be near enough to pick him up if that was the case.

Solo sank into the softness of the feather bed with a grateful sigh. He'd sat on the edge, shedding boots and jacket before deciding that anything more was overly ambitious. He'd hung his gunbelt on the bedstead, just in case, which was more force of habit than a real expectation of trouble.

After he'd rolled over a few times, he realized taking this bed had been a mistake. It smelled of Granger, the smell he had always associated with the other man, a particular mix of aromas that even now managed to make him react. Solo rolled onto his back, groaning in dismay. Was he so easily trained that even the other man's smell still haunted him?

The connecting door slammed open, bouncing against the wall behind, and Solo reacted by reaching for his revolver where it hung.

"Napoleon?"

Solo relaxed, sliding the revolver back into the holster before flopping back onto the bed.

"Go back to bed," he said. He couldn't see Curry, the click as he released the hammer on his revolver enough of an indication that the other man had advanced a couple of steps into the room.

"I heard a noise." Curry's voice was closer now, and Solo screwed his eyes shut. "What's wrong?"

His erection showed no sign of easing, the sudden adrenaline rush that Curry's appearance had prompted making him as hard as a rock. What he needed was privacy and he wasn't sure how to get it, short of upsetting Curry in a way the other man certainly didn't deserve.

"Nothing," he ground out. Somehow Solo knew if he reached out Curry was there, standing right beside the bed. He couldn't open his eyes, that would make this all too real. "I'm fine."

He knew he didn't sound fine; Curry's snort of disbelief was unnecessary.

"Was it a mistake, sleeping in his bed?" Solo's eyes snapped open at that question, searching the darkness for the other man. There he was, just a dark shape against greater darkness. "You weren't just friends with Mason Granger, were you?"

He could lie, but what was the point? Curry didn't sound condemning, just curious. The darkness seemed to encourage confessions.

"No."

"Good," Curry said. Before he could question that response, Solo felt the side of the feather bed dip under the other man's weight. "Move over."

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Helping you get to sleep," Curry said. Solo heard the quiet sound of Curry's revolver being placed on the bedside table, then the bedclothes lifted and the other man slid into the bed beside him.

They lay there in silence, side by side, for a couple of minutes. Solo wondered whether this was designed to see what his response was, or to give him an opportunity to say he didn't want this. That would have been another lie, and he wondered if Curry would see through it as easily as he seemed to be able to see through every other lie he'd uttered.

Curry turned to him then, when he hadn't protested, and Solo felt his hand cross the distance between them. Curry's fingers slid across his stomach, moving down to the button fly of his pants and making short work of them, despite the erection that tented them. He could have sworn, despite the darkness, that the other man smiled.

"He's dead," Curry said, his hand slipping inside Solo's pants to curl around his erection. "But you're not."

\---------------

The trip to Washington hadn't been a long one, but it seemed to take forever. A hundred times Solo had vowed to start a conversation with Curry about what had happened between them, but the opportunity never presented itself - there were some things that couldn't be discussed in public and this was certainly one of them.

Curry didn't seem in any particular hurry to talk about anything, his silence a constant, and after a while Solo didn't feel inclined to talk either. What did he know about this man anyway? As time passed, he began to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to let his guard down that way, even if he had owed Curry his life, considering the leverage it gave the other man.

Except he found it hard to reconcile the calculating attitude of Granger with the expression he'd seen on Curry's face when he'd been gasping under Solo's ministrations only hours before. Somehow he knew Curry understood what loyalty was, more than Granger ever had. Their secret was safe, even if such an encounter never happened again.

He'd seen nothing of Curry since he'd walked into Waverly's office two days before. The other man had been in dire need of a bath and a change of clothes after their run-in with Granger and his hired men and the long journey to Washington, but he'd expected to see him again, if only so they could compare notes for Waverly.

He'd also hoped for the opportunity to speak with him privately. There'd been no chance to gauge the truth of what had happened between them, and Solo wasn't sure he could trust his own perceptions of it. It wasn't unheard of for travellers to seek solace where they could, only to part ways when civilization beckoned once more.

If Waverly was running true to form, however, Curry was probably on his way to some far-flung part of the country even as Solo gave the matter some thought.

Now he was back in front of Colonel Waverly once more, sitting in one of two overstuffed chairs in front of an imposing teak desk. The man that sat behind it was equally imposing, and was just as he'd remembered him from when they'd served together in the war. If anything, he looked like a professor, the placid face hiding a razor-sharp mind and eyes that missed nothing.

"I'd like to offer you a job, Mr. Solo," Waverly said.

"A job, sir?"

"Assuming revenge on Mason Granger wasn't the only motivation for your little foray." Waverly looked around for his pipe, a familiar action that made Solo feel right at home. "And that you're prepared to offer your skills to serve the government."

Solo smiled to himself.

"I was starting to get bored with a gambler's life," he admitted. Waverly smiled, picking up his pipe from where it had been lying all the time and examining it minutely. "Do you have something particular in mind for me, sir?"

"I should say," Waverly continued, as if he hadn't even heard Solo's question, "there is one condition to this offer."

"Condition?" He didn't like the sound of that. The old man's face was inscrutable, as always.

"Yes, Mr. Solo." Waverly reached out and pressed a small button, one of a row of five. There was a buzz outside, the other side of the door where Solo had entered. "I don't like the idea of my men working alone."

The door to the office had opened, as whoever had been summoned with the buzzer entered, then quietly closed once more. Solo couldn't bring himself to look round, in case it wasn't true. He couldn't be that lucky, could he? There was movement beside him, someone taking the other chair, someone with the brightest blond hair, dressed in an immaculate charcoal gray suit and the snowiest linen he'd ever seen.

"Napoleon Solo," he said, turning to the chair's occupant with a smile that for once was utterly genuine.

"Illya Kuryakin," the other man said, the smallest of smiles quirking his mouth in reply.


End file.
